


I Love You More

by Gallifrean_assbutts_in221b



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, Awkward Carlos, Carlos Backstory, Carlos anxiety issues, Cecil is Human, Fluff, M/M, Smut, Sorry guys, a shitload of the beatles, minus the third eye, this whole thing is way too melodramatic i know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1748453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gallifrean_assbutts_in221b/pseuds/Gallifrean_assbutts_in221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It hurts him to see Cecil so damn hopeful. He wishes he could just explain to the guy that it’s no good liking him because they’d never work because Carlos isn’t capable of relationships because he’s scared of everything, especially connections, and why can’t Cecil just move on to someone who deserves him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. I wrote this entire thing at like two am, so apologies for any and all errors. This is one of the most melodramatic things I've ever written, so be warned: contains large amounts of cheesiness. Basically, I wanted to do a story that tied into all my favorite Beatles songs, so here. Epilogue may or may not be coming soon...depends. Thanks for reading anyhoo.

**I Love You More**

 

Cecil’s just so _adoring_. It freaks him out, the way he gushes about Carlos on the air, talks about his perfect hair and perfect teeth. At first, Carlos was certain he was joking, because after all, who says that sort of thing with sincerity, especially over the radio to the entire town?

But then it sort of dawned on him that the people in Night Vale don’t exactly act the way people usually do in other places because, well, Night Vale.

And once he figured out the radio host was actually serious, he was positively mortified.

How in the world could he possibly react to that? How is he even supposed to deal with it?

Carlos isn’t good with other people’s affections. He hasn’t really been in a lot of situations where he needed to be. So it’s more than difficult for him to speak with Cecil like a normal person. It’s impossible.

Which is why he makes sure to clarify each time: “I’m not calling for personal reasons.”

Because Cecil freaks him out: “I fell in love instantly.” What is he supposed to do with that?

\---

The haircut really wasn’t _that_ bad.

Carlos sighs and bends over his microscope, glaring at the magnified image of some of the hairs he found sticking out of the side of the TV. He’s tried to do a DNA test; no conclusive results thus far…

Was it, though? Was it honestly? Or is Cecil just so obsessed with his hair that he was near livid at the shit haircut Telly gave him?

He adjusts the light, straining to find cells of any kind. The hairs don’t appear to be made up of any type of organic matter.

It was actually kind of badass, the way Cecil stormed up to Telly and gave him a talking-to. Scary, but…oddly maybe a little bit sexy.

 _Stop it, brain! No more!_ Carlos swallows, concentrating on his microscope slide.

Of course, it takes all of thirty seconds for his thoughts  to drift over to the way Cecil pointed at Telly with so much rage his fingers shook. They’re nice fingers…

Carlos doesn’t get much work done that night.

\---

_Day 233_

_Midway through my seventh month in Night Vale. It’s still by far the most scientifically interesting community in the US, and I’m still not sure that it really wants to be studied, or has any intention of letting me do so. I don’t mean the people and other entities who make up the community; the town itself seems to have some sort of sentience to it, and a rather hostile one at that, which I find…shall we say, unnerving._

_Then there’s Cecil._

_I still don’t know what to make of him. His advances on me seem to be sincere, despite any previous actions I may have taken as taunting. Every time I speak with him, he bounces like an exuberant puppy. I don’t know what to do about it. How can I manage this, him calling me perfect all the time, announcing to the whole damn town that_

_People (and other entities) have now long been referring to me as “Cecil’s scientist”. There doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about that, but it’s almost as if I now have no other identity beyond belonging to him. Which I don’t._

_He’s very difficult to ignore. Especially since he’s not exactly unattractive, once you get past the third eye (which has actually grown on me a bit). He’s tall and thin, with capable-looking hands and this sort of smile that competes with the lights above the Arby’s (the source of which I have yet to find). And he just has these eyes, bright violet and intense in a way that feels like he can see right through me sometimes, but it’s difficult to_

_I can’t seem to finish my sentences._

_In any case, I should be careful. Every time his (deep, sonorous, alluring) voice comes on the radio reporting on the day’s catastrophes, I start to wish I had more Xanax. This town is, to say the least, a very stressful place to live. Maybe I should’ve turned down the job offer. It can’t be good for me. I’ve had twelve panic attacks in the last seven and a half months, which may be a record for me, I stopped keeping track. Night Vale is a dangerous place, but I’m not entirely sure I’d be allowed to leave._

\---

_Day 268_

_I think the best way to describe Cecil would be ~~gorgeous but creepy~~   ~~just gorgeous~~   ~~just creepy~~   ~~terrifying yet alluring?~~   ~~beautiful in this weird way I really can’t cope with because it makes me feel lightheaded and also guilty because I don’t deserve all this affection but there it is somehow and I think he’s amazing and scary and I don’t know what to~~ Indescribable   ???_

_This is not going well._

\---

Carlos is hopeless, has always been hopeless. He’s been hopeless since fourth grade, when he forgot to turn in his science project and started hyperventilating in the middle of class. His mother was inherently worried, as mothers are wont to be, and that was the first time he got sent to therapy.

He _hated_ therapy.

He hated the idea of whining about his feelings, not to mention sharing his deepest darkest secrets, with a complete stranger for an hour every Thursday night.  He hated the “how did that make you feel”s. He hated the way Dr. Crawford always clicked his pen when he thought Carlos was lying. He hated the bland, windowless room he had to sit in, and the irritating _tick tick_ of the wall clock, like a time bomb right up until he had to leave. He resisted the whole thing at first, though gradually he realized it was easier to just give in and talk, if only just a tiny bit.

He kept seeing Dr. Crawford until he went away for college.

They prescribed him meds to help with anxiety, but he still had frequent panic attacks. He got freaked out over tiny things and made his mother worry so much she’d start to cry, which made Carlos feel so completely awful that he’d get even more freaked out. Once he was taking a geometry quiz and, hard as he tried, couldn’t remember the formula for surface area of a cylinder. He spent a full fifteen minutes in the nurse’s office hyperventilating. When he got nervous, which was near constantly, he started to stutter, which meant he was isolated and had almost no friends.

So Carlos made friends with things he could watch under a microscope, words on pages that smelled like the library, and a tall green-eyed boy in his biology class who moved into town when he was thirteen.

Adam had a toothy grin and long, skinny arms. His mother got a job in their little Utah town as an architect somewhere or other. He and Carlos were assigned to be partners for their first biology project and ended up playing cards every day after school.

Adam always won at crazy eights.

Carlos’ mom always made them snacks when they came home. She worked two jobs as a single mother to keep them afloat, hummed Beatles songs while she cooked and sang “In My Life” to Carlos when he couldn’t sleep. When she saw that he’d made a friend, she celebrated for days.

He and Adam shared a bond based on an abiding love for astronomy, Parcheesi and chicken quesadillas. The two of them looked at the stars together nearly every night; the good thing about living in a small town was minimal light pollution, and staring at constellations always made him feel better. They were each other’s only friends for quite a while. And then they weren’t.

Carlos found it hard when Adam started to make new friends around sophomore year, and they started to spend less and less time together. He found it hard to understand why. And he found it hard to admit that his breath quickened and his chest tightened when they sat too close on the couch and that he ended up thinking about Adam 70% of the day.

“It must be—we must be growing apart. Or at least, he is,” he confessed to Dr. Crawford.

“He’s your only friend,” said the shrink. “It must be hard.”

“His eyes are too bright. They’re this—they’re really really green and it’s…distracting and I don’t know why. But I think about it too much, which is weird, and he’s…I miss him even when he’s right in front of me because I know he won’t be for long.”

There was a pause.

“Are you in love with him?”

Carlos stared at the ground, fidgeting with the edge of his shirt.

“Carlos.”

“I—no.”

Dr. Crawford clicked his pen. He didn’t bring it up after that.

After Adam stopped hanging out with him, Carlos dove into his books and his studies. He wanted to be a scientist. He loved the facts and figures, the certainty of it all. Solid ground, sanctuary. It was easier to hide in concrete knowledge, calculations, than try to make pointless headway with other people, especially since that tended to result in him curled up on the bathroom floor unable to breathe.

He also learned to play guitar, and saved up for a year and a half so he could buy one. Strumming made him feel better; the vibration of his fingers on the rough strings was soothing, though often more frustrating than therapeutic when he keeps messing up the chords. His mother loved to hear him play, though, and he was such a perfectionist that he normally ended up practicing for far longer than he intended, so he got quite good by the time he entered college.

He didn’t want to go to his junior prom, but his mother—“I’m worried about you, hombrecito. You never talk to people.”—as always, made him go. He felt like an idiot having shown up _by himself_ in a stupid rented tuxedo. He stood in the corner, nursing a red plastic cup of punch, and tried to breathe while the multitudes of sweaty adolescents danced in front of him, surrounding by deflated balloons. Halfway through the night, Adam showed up out of nowhere and asked how he’d been and what was going on and hey, did he maybe want to dance.

Carlos, indignant that Adam thought they could just talk like old times when they hadn’t spoken in nearly a year but vaguely aware that those green eyes still made his heart flutter feebly, told him no.

Then he had to run outside because the gym was stuffy and crowded and the air felt like stale cereal and beer, and his stomach lurched and flipped like he was on a fucking roller coaster. He stood there by himself, listening to the fuzzy background hum of music and conversation, hating who he was.

He stared up at the stars, tracing constellations and imagining infinity until he could breathe again, and then he drove home. His mother didn’t ask why he was back so early, but she kissed him on the forehead and sang “In My Life” quietly until he fell asleep.

He started taking more pills per day after that.

He went to a decent northwestern college, which was where he met Doug—sweet, intelligent, charismatic Doug who liked that Carlos was shy and studious, who made Carlos feel things on a level he’d never experienced, who had no idea he was Carlos’ first kiss but did know he was a virgin. And then he wasn’t anymore, and he and Doug were an _item_ , which was terrifying and exhilarating all at once for a while and then just nerve wracking because Carlos doesn’t know how to deal with people, doesn’t know what he supposed to say or do. Like everyone knows all the steps to an elaborate secret handshake he was never taught.

Then one night he got a call at eleven thirty saying his mom had been killed in a car wreck. He doesn’t honestly remember much of that night besides sobbing endlessly and Doug holding him saying “shh, shh” and rocking him back to sleep.

Doug broke up with him three weeks later. Carlos could tell he’d wanted to for a while, could see that he’d been planning to before they got the phone call, but Doug was a nice guy who couldn’t dump somebody _right after_ finding out their mom was dead, so he politely waited a while to do it, which Carlos appreciated in retrospect because it was kind of him. Carlos couldn’t say he blamed him; Doug collected the extra shirts he’d taken to stocking in Carlos’ apartment and left.

And then Carlos had absolutely no one.

He lost himself to textbooks and pills and, when he craved something, the occasional one-night stand, which was a terrible idea because it required him getting very drunk in order to loosen up sufficiently and then freaking out completely when he woke up in a stranger’s bed.

He was pretty tight on money since all he had was an internship and a job serving coffee at the time, so a therapist was out of the question. He came home to a tiny, empty apartment and tried not to think about the fact that if he died, not one single person would notice or care about his absence. A lot of times, he didn’t succeed. He’d stick his head out the window, craning to get a good view of the night sky, but he was in a city, so the stars were all but invisible.

Midway through April in his senior year of college he found himself rocking back and forth on the bathroom floor, sobbing and hyperventilating. He clutched at a bottle of pills from the medicine cabinet and almost swallowed every last one of them. He even considered leaving a note but realized that no one would ever read it. He actually got as far as having a glass of water ready and the top of the bottle opened with shaking hands when his cell phone rang.

It had been so long since he’d gotten a phone call from anyone that he’d forgotten he set his ringtone as “In My Life.” The little six-note guitar intro blared from his buzzing phone, and he just stared at it, wide-eyed.

“H-hello?” It took a gargantuan effort to keep his voice remotely steady, and for one stupid, crazy second, he expected his mom’s voice to come back on the other line.

As it turned out, he’d been offered another internship, which he accepted with no real thought.

After hanging up, Carlos dug his guitar out of the closet, tuned it up, and played that song over and over for hours until he fell asleep.

He finished college and kept his job. He met people and had a few disastrous attempts at a relationship, every one of which seemed to end with him gathering his stuff and leaving quietly after being told he was too  stressful to date or too hard to be around sometimes or, to quote Ricky Blume (By far the most obnoxious of Carlos’ exes), “You're too fucked up in the head. You should get therapy, man.”

(“Whatever,” Carlos thought repeatedly, furiously, once he was done crying. “I only dated you because you’re good-looking. Your couch is ugly and you have horrible morning breath.”)

The new internship he’d been offered led to another in the seismography division, though Carlos had hoped for an opening in astronomy. Then that internship led to a job offer to go and study the most scientifically interesting community in the U. S.

And, well. You know what happened next.

\---

His first impression of Cecil was ‘weird’, but once he got to know Night Vale a little better and realizes that weird doesn’t even begin to cover it, he doesn’t really have a singular word. Whenever he thinks of Cecil (something that happens with exponentially increased frequency over the subsequent months), at first it’s _that tall, vaguely good-looking radio host with the sometimes visible third eye, I should probably look into that at some point,_ and then it’s _Cecil, with the deep voice who always talks about my hair on his fucking show,_ and then _funny, sweet, adorable Cecil with the gorgeous purple eyes and the amazing smile who unjustifiably calls me perfect,_ and then _Cecil the—fuck Carlos why are you thinking about him stop it you know that’s a bad idea._

And it is, it’s a terrible idea. But he can’t help it.

\---

_Day 286_

_Today I ran into Cecil in the grocery store._

_I was browsing the Venomous Fanged Pepperoni aisle (I find it less odd that the pepperoni has vicious, poisonous teeth than the fact that there’s an entire aisle devoted to just pepperoni) and he quite literally bumped into me and dropped a bunch of his Invisible Soup packets. He started blushing and rambling about how he’d been hoping to see me. I bent down to help him pick up the soup packets and handed one to him, and he seemed surprised that I‘d even bother; do I really appear that callous? He looked at me with this sort of—wonder, I guess, like he couldn’t quite believe it, like I was this incredible thing just by being_ there.

_I don’t know how to deal with that. It’s terrifying._

_Unfortunately, my brain seems to think the best way to respond to his…devotion, for lack of a better word—is by telling me “No one has a right to be that sexy in a sweater vest, he is so fucking cute, goddammit,” whenever he enters the room. Which is additionally frustrating, because I’m starting to realize that not only is he freakishly attractive despite, or perhaps in part due to, the fact that he wears sweater vests almost exclusively, he’s also_ so nice _to me, all the time, for no real reason other than that he likes me. Even though I’ve been here for nearly ten and a half months and haven’t shown any indication of returning his affections. I’ve actually hung up on him several times while he was in the middle of talking (I was having trouble coping with the way he says my name in that voice of his so I had to put the phone down or I might’ve exploded) and he still hasn’t given up on me. No one’s ever liked me so much. Ever. I can’t just…throw that away, can I?_

_That sounds like I’m rationalizing. Am I rationalizing? Crap._

_I think I really like him. God, I sound like such a teenager when I say it like that but it’s true, I think I really really like him and it’s scaring the shit out of me because I don’t know what to_ do. _He’s just—he thinks I’m perfect. He likes my voice and that I’m a scientist and he thinks I’m really smart. For god’s sake, he’s known me for ten and a half freaking months and he can’t find a single thing wrong with me. And I can’t—I can’t start a relationship with someone that amazing because I’m complete crap at relationships, I have an orgy of evidence for that, and he’s so amazing and I feel all warm and sweet when he gets near me and if I try to be in a relationship with him I’ll screw it up, I know I will, or he’ll get to know me a little better and realize I’m not at all like the guy he talks about on the radio and then he won’t like me anymore, and I don’t want to lose him._

_But I also know he won’t wait around for me forever._

\---

Almost eleven months after he came to Night Vale, Carlos drops by the station with some equipment checking for purple spikes oozing up from between the floorboards that seem to sing opera faintly and hoarsely, as they’d appeared in several people’s homes earlier in the week. As he’s mumbling something about reminding the listeners and staring at the floor so he won’t have to meet those violet eyes, Cecil asks him about weekend plans _again_ and Carlos suddenly wants to throw his equipment at the wall. Instead he just glances up, seething, and watches the excited light in Cecil’s eyes dim to confusion and slight concern at his expression. Then he shakes his head jerkily and storms out without another word, Cecil calling behind him, “So maybe next weekend?”

Carlos gets home and buries his face in his hands because it hurts him to see Cecil so damn _hopeful_. He wishes he could just explain to the guy that it’s no good liking him because they’d never work because Carlos isn’t capable of relationships because he’s scared of everything, especially connections, and why can’t Cecil just move on to someone who deserves him?

But he can’t explain that because it would require talking to Cecil, which he can’t seem to manage of late, so Carlos just sits there and cries pathetically, trying to remember how to breathe and not sink into a bone-deep depression or think repeatedly _I don’t want to be alone forever but I will be, I’m not worth anyone and sooner or later they always leave or I always ruin everything and I’m going to die by myself next to a microscope and a half-filled notebook—_

\---

Cecil still smiles at him and blushes the next time Carlos has to drop by the station. It makes him want to scream.

\---

_Day 365_

_It’s very late at night right now, I’m not sure exactly what time because something stuck a giant, bloody fang into the face of my watch and now the only true timepiece in Night Vale is no longer that._

_Anyways, I made some pretty rash decisions today in deciding to investigate the tiny city underneath lane five of the Desert Flowers bowling place thing (how every single citizen manages to remember that long of a name is beyond me). It did not occur to me that the people in that tiny town would have missiles. How they managed to build the things is something I will have to investigate further. Where did they find the supplies for that sort of thing on a miniature scale? I suppose it wouldn’t be entirely too difficult in Night Vale. There’s bound to be a shop that sells tiny nuclear warheads around here somewhere. Though how they would get to that shop is another matter entirely, seeing as they are each two inches tall and spent an entire year trying to climb the ten-foot drop in front of their city._

_When I entered what I suppose was the downtown area, they began firing at me. I was so surprised at first that I reacted, like an idiot, by trying to swat the things away with my hands. That didn’t bode well, and within thirty seconds, they’d injured me sufficiently. I fell to my knees. There was a lot of blood; it soaked through my shirt. Miraculously, I didn’t have a panic attack but I think this counts as a near-death experience. I was on the dusty floor of that city—I think I may have crushed their tiny movie theater, which again, I cannot know how they had the supplies to build one—and all I could think about was Cecil and his bright violet eyes and his deep voice and the way he blushed that one time when I told him his third eye was slightly more almond-shaped than the other two. I almost died, and he was all I could think about, which makes me feel vaguely guilty but also kind of warm in a way I haven’t felt in a while. And I just—it occurred to me that I’m so scared of everything all the time that I never give things a chance to be a good part of my life, and…well, I figured if I was going to die, I didn’t want that to happen and have Cecil think I never liked him._

_And then, well, then I didn’t die, and I couldn’t stop thinking about Cecil anyways, and I asked him to meet me in the parking lot behind the Arby’s._

_He came, and I tried to tell him about how I’d just been scared this whole time and I wasn’t anymore, but I ended up rambling about the clocks and the lights in the sky, and I think some of what I said may have had a double meaning but I’m not entirely sure what it was because it was mostly unintentional._

_Cecil sat next to me on the hood of my car. I tried again to tell him how I felt, but the words wouldn’t come, so I put my hand on his knee instead. He put his head on my shoulder and we sat there together, looking out at the lights above the Arby’s._

_I think he got the message._

\---

“Cecil?”

Brief pause of excitement. “Carlos?”

“Yes. Um. H-hi.”

“Hi, Carlos! What is it?

 _Come on. I can do this. Just ask him out._ “I-I’m calling for p-personal reasons.”

He barely gets the words out before burying his face in his hands thinking _what the fuck you idiot why would you say_ —

“Personal reasons?” Cecil’s deep voice responds, quavering slightly.

Carlos swallows. _Man up. Just ask him._ “Yes. I was, um, I was w-wondering if—maybe you—”

Shit shit shit he can’t do it. If it had been anyone else, they might’ve gotten annoyed by his frequent pauses and inability to speak like a normal fucking human. But Cecil just waits patiently for him to finish.

“Iwaswonderingifmaybeyouwantedtogooutsometime,” he manages in one breath, and immediately starts worrying that Cecil will have no idea what the fuck he just said.

There’s a pause.

“Go out? With you? Like a date?”

Carlos nods twice before remembering that Cecil can’t see him. “Y-yes.”

He hears muffled noises on the other line, quite possibly Cecil doing his happy dance. After a brief moment, the shuffling dies down and Cecil clears his throat.

“When?”

“Um…tom-morrow?”

Cecil doesn’t exactly squeal, but he does make some kind of silent squealing face that Carlos is somehow able to detect through the phone. “ _Neat_!”

Carlos bites his lip. “Okay. Um. Yeah.”

“So…I’ll see you then?”

“Uh. Yeah. Yes.”

“Great! Bye!”

“B-bye…”

The scientist hangs up in utter disbelief. _I just asked Cecil on a date._ A date. A date. _And he said yes!_

An all-encompassing terror grips at his insides. He’s going on a date. With Cecil. Tomorrow night.

Oh dear god.

\---

Well, despite the whole _weird-ass buzzing shadows engulfing the entire town_ part, Carlos thinks it went okay. Though he decides not to listen to Cecil’s show the following day, just to spare himself the sheer embarrassment of hearing their date dissected on the air. This requires a surprising amount of willpower; Carlos hadn’t realized how accustomed he’d grown to hearing Cecil’s soothing tones to put him to sleep. It’s hard to nod off without a “good night” from that voice.

Carlos wants another date.

Mind you, he’s still scared out of his wits, but he’s trying to let that go, and his desire for Cecil seems to be a good way to override it. After the date, he spends three whole days cooped up in his lab, trying to work up the nerve to ask again.

He can’t believe his luck when Cecil calls and does it for him.

\---

On their second date, they go see a movie. It’s approximately 12.63.4% seconds long according to Cecil; as far as Carlos can tell that’s around eighteen minutes. Cecil also describes it as a comedy, which Carlos doesn’t exactly grasp because it’s literally eighteen minutes of footage of a man eating cereal. Fortunately, the minute they leave the theater (the entrances to which kept moving around inconveniently) they are advised never to talk or think about the film again for their own safety. This time, Cecil walks Carlos home; the scientist kisses him again before he drives away.

Carlos doesn’t invite him inside. He’s scared it might be too forward and imply that he’s ready for things he might not be ready for and maybe he doesn’t have the proper permits, he’s still not sure how this sort of thing works in Night Vale. So he leaves it at a kiss and says goodnight.

It’s a very nice kiss, though. It lasts a little longer than the first, and Cecil’s lips are soft and warm.

On their third date, Carlos finds out that Cecil tastes like lemon-lime soda and the air after a rainstorm.

\---

_Day 398_

_We're an item now. We're together. I haven't been this excited about dating someone since Doug. It's weird._

_Cecil and I are now...Cecil and I._

_Every time I think that I get a tingle down my spine. It's wonderful. A ~~nd I think maybe I might be falling for him~~_

_Let's just not go there. Not now. I have evil salamanders with tiny machetes to study._

\---

On their sixth date, they have coffee and Cecil talks about his favorite kinds of weather. Apparently if he wanted to discuss music in Night Vale, he has to call it meteorology. But to his intense relief, it appears they have the same concept of music history and _of course_ Cecil knows who The Beatles are, one of the best groups of weathermen ever, good god, what is he, an intern? And Cecil kisses him a little harder that time, in the passenger seat of his car, tangling his fingers in Carlos’ so-called perfect hair, and Carlos complies because _thank god_ he can still listen to The Beatles and Eric Clapton and Jimmy Buffet and Johnny Cash in Night Vale because Carlos isn’t sure how he’d survive without that, and Cecil’s _lips_ are, wow, so—

Cecil invites him inside that night.

Carlos comes in.

“You have a nice place,” Carlos comments awkwardly, noting that he’s not stammering despite his anxiety and maybe that’s a good sign.

Cecil beams at him and motions towards the couch. “Do you, uh, want anything to drink? I have some scotch, I think. Oh no, that’s plasma extract…is starfruit bourbon okay?

Carlos swallows and nods, trying to breathe evenly despite the fact that he’s _sitting on Cecil’s couch_ ,which definitely shouldn’t make him this nervous. _Oh shit oh shit I’m in Cecil’s house what do I do oh fuck he’s really hot what do I do_

“I couldn’t find my starfruit bloodstone, so I had to go with grapefruit bourbon instead. Hope that’s okay.” Cecil hands him a glass, which Carlos accepts, trying desperately not to let his hands shake.

“Yeah, sure,” he manages, sounding kind of strangled, and takes a sip of the drink, which is actually pretty good. It tastes nothing like bourbon or grapefruit for that matter, not that he really expected it to, but it’s sweet and burns his throat on the way down.

They sit on Cecil’s couch, talking, for two more hours and several more drinks. When Carlos finally glances at his watch and mutters “shit, I should probably go,” Cecil nods understandingly and gazes unblinkingly at his face.

Carlos doesn’t move off the couch.

For several seconds, they just sit there, staring at each other. Carlos’ heart pounds frantically and his mind races through _christ his eyes are so purple_ and _how does he do that_ and _shit shit remember to breathe_. Then Cecil does this _thing_ where he bites the corner of his mouth uncertainly, gears whirring behind his eyes as he calculates the risk, calculates Carlos’ reaction and decides he’s willing to chance it, and then leans in suddenly and kisses him firmly. If he wasn’t already frozen, that would’ve been enough to make Carlos freeze up, and it takes a second to register that he should close his eyes and enjoy the kiss because he’s too busy worrying about how scary it is that he’s _on Cecil’s couch_ being _kissed by Cecil_ and it’s _late at night_ and—

Then he remembers to stop thinking. He closes his eyes slowly and kisses Cecil back, and he doesn’t freak out and move away when Cecil wraps those arms around his waist. Carlos reaches up and tentatively tangles his fingers in Cecil’s hair. It’s soft and sweet and tender and Carlos knows he has to leave but now he really, _really_ doesn’t want to.

They end up making out for the better part of twenty minutes.

Eventually, Carlos’ watch alarm goes off, though he can’t be sure it’s entirely accurate ever since he pulled that bloody fang out of it. They break apart, slightly out of breath, lips swollen.

Cecil gives him this sort of crooked, slightly sheepish grin and his heart _stops_.

“I—uh,” he manages. Cecil clears his throat a bit awkwardly, removing his hands from Carlos’ hips.

“I think—it’s…did you maybe want to…” he trails off, because Carlos is biting his lip and he can tell that lip-biting means absolute terror. The terror is due to the fact that Carlos is pretty sure he knows where Cecil was going with that, and he does want to spend the night, he really, really does, but he can’t because he’s too nervous and it’s too soon and he’s too scared of fucking the whole thing up.

“I—I r-really should get g-going, but, um,” he stammers, standing abruptly, “th-this was nice.”

“Okay,” Cecil says. “I’ll call you, then.”

“Right. Yeah. Great.”

He turns and heads to the door, turning back as he leaves, “Goodnight, Cecil.”

“Goodnight, Carlos.”

\---

_Day 407_

_I wish I was charming and suave like he pretends I am. For god’s sake, we’ve been together two months and I still keep chickening out. It’s not that I don’t want to—I’ve been inadvertently fantasizing about it for over a year now—I just don’t know how to handle this anymore. It’s been a while. My last pathetic attempt at a relationship was—what, three years before I left for Night Vale? That was when I decided it would be a good idea to go out with Jackson, that Starbucks barista with the weird goatee. What a disaster. And then my last one-night stand was something like—maybe four or five months before. So it’s safe to say that yeah, it’s been a while._

_I don’t know if I can do this, and I also don’t know if I can keep_ not _doing it. Fuck._

_I’m just so scared I’ll screw it up somehow, it’s like I’m constantly expecting something horrible to come out of my mouth. Cecil is incredible, I can’t lose him. I haven’t felt this way about anyone since…maybe since I started going out with Doug in college. And look how things turned out with that; I nearly fucking offed myself when he left. I may never have had a decent relationship in my entire life, but I cannot ruin this one. I can’t._

\---

The levee finally breaks on the night of their fourteenth date.

Carlos cooks dinner, which they eat on his couch, inches apart, and watch a movie. It’s some old dumb horror flick, but Carlos has always been a bit of a sucker for jump scares, so every time a demon pops up out of nowhere on screen, he lets out a bit of a whimper; a few times he buries his face in Cecil’s shirt.

That’s when it really kicks in.

It’s just that Cecil smells so good, that weird, unique blend of his—like vanilla and a lit match. Out of nowhere Carlos gets hit by a pang of lust, the kind he hasn’t felt in years. He can’t remember the last time a guy got him this hot and bothered—it’s kinda nice, to be honest, makes him feel like he’s maybe not that old—and suddenly all his fear starts to dissipate.

They end up somehow making out before the movie’s over; Cecil grabs the remote and pauses it, and pretty soon they stop wondering what the ending might be.

This time Carlos doesn’t have time to be scared and anxious and embarrassed because he’s too busy running his hands down Cecil’s chest, leaning in still closer, and kissing the shit out of him.

Then he has to break off for air, which sucks, except Cecil’s mouth doesn’t leave his skin. The radio host plants a wet trail of kisses down his neck and Carlos makes an embarrassingly high-pitched moan.

“Cecil,” he breathes. “You—I thi—”

Cecil starts unbuttoning Carlos’ shirt.

Carlos almost, _almost_ freezes up and pulls away and ruins everything, but he doesn’t, because his hands are now moving of their own accord, pulling Cecil’s sweater over his head, gripping his shoulders roughly—Cecil falls on top of him, fingers roving greedily over Carlos’ bare chest and they’re kissing like two drowning men desperate for air—

He pulls back for a second and looks at Carlos, and the look on his face is _delicious_ but there’s a question in his eyes, the unspoken ‘are you sure?’ that hangs in the tiny space between them.

Carlos looks back, somehow quite calmly, and suddenly, for the first time, he’s sure.

\---

Cecil makes _fantastic_ French toast. Wheat and wheat by-product free, too. Carlos gets a third helping, which makes him feel a bit gluttonous, but he doesn’t mind so much because Cecil’s lips taste like syrup.

\---

Two days after that, something happens.

It’s one of those days when the City Council can’t quite decide, so they get caught in some kind of limbo between Wednesday and Thursday. They’re at Cecil’s place this time, because Carlos had asked to see his record collection (Cecil actually has a legitimate, working turntable on which he can play vinyl). Of course, Cecil was immediately confused and Carlos had to remember to correct himself—“your meteorology equipment, I mean.”

“Oh, sure! Why didn’t you say so?”

Carlos browses Cecil’s absolutely enormous shelf (“I couldn’t get a smaller one, city council mandated that this one was easier to hide cameras in”) and picks something at random. It turns out to be a Beatles album—Revolver—and when “Taxman” comes on, Cecil leaps up with a shameless yelp of enthusiasm and starts dancing like a crazy person. Carlos just sits there watching him, amused and vaguely startled, for a few seconds before Cecil grins, grabs his wrist and yanks him up.

And then they’re dancing together, which Carlos _always_ tries to avoid because it tends to remind him of his hideous junior prom experience and also he can’t dance (people assume he can because he’s Latino, but no); every time he tries he ends up looking like he’s having a seizure. But Cecil doesn’t care, and for once, Carlos doesn’t either (much), and the two of them flail around together, air guitar-ing like a pair of idiots, which they are. Once the song ends, the two of them flop back down on the couch, grinning and out of breath.

Then Cecil turns the record over, hears the opening notes of “Here, There and Everywhere” and smiles even wider, if that was possible, and then they’re slow dancing like two adolescents but Carlos can’t bring himself to care because of the way Cecil _looks_ at him.

_To lead a better life_   
_I need my love to be here_   
_Here, making each day of the year_   
_Changing my life with a wave of his hand_   
_Nobody can deny that there’s something there_

“Carlos,” Cecil says simply, and there’s no additional meaning or intent behind it, just an excuse to say his name, and he says it like no one’s ever said it before: soft and reverent and loving,  like a prayer or a bloodstone chant late at night, like the way he said “ _oh”_ that night in the Arby’s parking lot.

And that’s when Carlos sees it, laid out in front of him like a map, he sees everything in Cecil’s eyes: he sees the path they’re headed down, twisted and long; sees himself falling, _really_ falling like he never has, for this strange, remarkable radio host; sees the way they’ll lean on each other; sees himself learning to let go and telling Cecil everything, trusting him absolutely, giving himself over, but still not completely; still holding back; somehow still, _still_ terrified at every turn, because that’s what he is at his core, terrified of everything, of life, and he can’t change it no matter how hard he tries—and he _has_ tried, his whole life he has.

Carlos sees exactly how this will go, how he’ll try above all else to be everything to Cecil the way Cecil deserves, the way he knows Cecil is becoming everything to him. He sees that it’ll be the hardest thing he’s ever attempted, to let himself belong to Cecil, completely, unquestioningly, to not hole up and hide behind his job and the rest of the world, and he can see himself failing. He can see how happy Cecil will make him, how much he’ll love this man, and how much it’ll hurt like he’s being put through a paper shredder when he comes to terms with the fact that he just. Can’t. Do it.

Cecil smiles contentedly, like it would be a crime for him to be anywhere in the world but here, dancing with Carlos, who is thinking now he has a choice:

Give up now and avoid the inevitable crash and burn, or stay with Cecil, enjoy the ride, cover his eyes and brace for impact when they get close to their destination.

He hums along to the song.  
  
 _There, running my hands through his hair_  
 _Both of us thinking that love never dies_  
 _Watching his eyes_  
 _And hoping I’m always there_  
 _I will be there_

Carlos' every instinct is screaming at him to leave now, to finish it before he gets too attached, save himself the time and trouble, but for once he doesn't. Because it hurts too much to back away, and for once in his life, that's stronger than the fear.

And just as he thinks it and the wall comes down in his head, it starts to happen.

\---

Carlos has a list:

5\. Drinking coffee on a Sunday morning when it’s raining slightly outside and he doesn’t have any work to do, just looking out the window and thinking about things

4\. Sex

3\. Finally finishing one of his experiments in the lab and actually getting good results

2\. Knowing that he can play a really difficult song on the guitar really well after practicing it for forever (specifically playing it all the way through for the first time with no mistakes whatsoever and hearing that last chord reverberating triumphantly into silence)

1\. Any Beatles record

On day 433 in Night Vale, he moves all of those down a notch and replaces number one with:

1\. When he wakes up and the first thing he smells is that odd combination of vanilla and ash and something else unnameable that’s just _Cecil_

It’s officially the #1 best feeling in the world.

(Is it weird that sex was only ranked fourth there? No, it’s not _that_ weird, right?)

\---

“Cecil, are you aware that there’s a giant mushroom cloud emanating from the high school? And I don’t mean a mushroom cloud like after an explosion, I mean an enormous cloud patterned like a toadstool, raining fungi down on the auditorium—”

Cecil laughs into the phone. “Oh, Carlos, I’d forgotten, you never got the chance to meet Elizabeth! She comes and goes every three years-ish, just to stop in for a visit. It’s really quite nice of her.”

Carlos wrings his hands; even after all this time in Night Vale he can’t help being distressed at a giant mushroom cloud named Elizabeth. “Every three years? For how long? Has anyone ever investigated? Because this cloud is—well, it even _smells_ like a mushroom—”

“Hey, Carlos, be nice! Elizabeth is a she, not an it. Well, sort of. You should go say hi, she’s really quite nice!”

After spluttering for a few seconds, Carlos gives up and just smacks a palm to his forehead, muttering, “Oh my god.” And then: “Hey, are you still coming over for dinner tonight?”

“Of course!” He can hear the grin in Cecil’s voice. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Just…making sure, I thought maybe you might’ve…what with the—Elizabeth and all…”

Part of him wishes Cecil wasn’t so eager. He doesn’t deserve this much enthusiasm.

“Carlos, really, don’t worry about her. She’s great. We actually used to date, as a matter of fact.”

Carlos freezes. “You went out with a _cloud_?”

“There’s no need to react that way. Don’t be a bigot, Carlos.”

“You went out with a cloud!”

“It was only for 7.36 days anyway. Don’t worry, this doesn’t mean you have competition. Elizabeth wasn’t half as good a cook as you are. And not as god in bed, either.”

Carlos blushes furiously and nearly drops the phone. “Um—the—you w—”

“Since you can’t see me, Carlos, I’m winking.”

“Y—the—right. Of course.”

“Okay. In conclusion, listeners, disregard this news, it’s just the tri-annual return of Elizabeth, nothing to worry about—”

Carlos really does drop the phone this time in utter horror. “Ce—god _dammit,_ Cecil, are w-we on the air right now?”

No answer.

“ _Cecil!_ The—why do you always—I’ll talk to you later!” he manages, and hangs up.

Mental note: make it clear to Cecil that he needs to not discuss their sex life on the radio where the entire town hears it.

\---

One afternoon Carlos asks Cecil to help him find a small, semi-visible, eyeless child living in the back of his closet.

“I’m sure he’s in here somewhere,” Carlos tells him. “Or—or she, I’m not quite sure…”

 He stops when he hears Cecil suddenly gasp dramatically.

“Cecil? What—” he begins excitedly, only to be interrupted by Cecil saying, even more excitedly, “you didn’t tell me you had a barometer!”

“What?”

Cecil steps out of the closet, holding tightly to the neck of his guitar.

“Oh—yeah,” says Carlos sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t really play much?”

“Do you know any good forecasts?”

Assuming that means songs, Carlos bites his lip. “Uh…” He’s never really played in front of anyone, actually.

Cecil’s eyes sparkle like an excited little kid, and Carlos’ heart drops and then dissolves.

Dammit. Those eyes get him every time.

“I guess so,” he says, and Cecil’s grin is so happy that Carols just has to smile as Cecil gingerly hands him the instrument.

They sit cross-legged on the floor, facing each other, and Carlos plays him a song.

After a moment’s deliberation, Carlos decides on “Let It Be,” strikes the opening chord and starts singing softly. He tries not to look at Cecil’s face so he doesn’t blush and get nervous and tangle up his fingers. It’s been a while, but he actually gets pretty into it, and manages by some miracle not to disastrously fuck up the whole big solo in the bridge of the song. When he finally strikes the last chord, he looks up at Cecil, blushing hotly, and finds himself being stared at with quite possibly the most pure adoration the human face is possible of expressing or wordlessly emanating in strange, radiant waves of energy.

“That was beautiful,” Cecil says quietly, amazed, and Carlos blushes even deeper.

Then Cecil leans in and kisses him firmly, which takes him a bit by surprise, although he gets over it quickly, and soon discards the guitar—ahem, barometer.

\---

Carlos never exactly moves in, it just sort of happens gradually.

As he and Cecil start spending more time at each other’s homes, Carlos starts leaving things at Cecil’s place. It’s not like he has much anyways; just clothes, books some records and the guitar. His only real furniture aside from a shitty mattress is an old, battered leather couch which he needed to get rid of anyways as it had become infested with some sort of demonic presence (it looked something like a green baby giraffe).  They never really go to Carlos’ place since it’s above the lab and there are, in fact, other scientists. Carlos gets the sense that Night Vale has different standards of privacy than most other places, but still. Eventually, it gets to the point where one afternoon, Carlos is looking around his apartment for a tie because all the ties in town have morphed into venomous patterned snakes, and realizes, oh yeah, all my stuff is at Cecil’s.

And just like that they’re living together. Cecil doesn’t seem to sweat it, and as difficult as it is for Carlos to go along with that, he actually sort of manages. It’s like he just wakes up one morning in Cecil’s bed and it’s suddenly permanent.

It feels nice. Scary, but living in Night Vale is helping him develop his ability to shove fear down to the back of his throat to an astonishing level.

\---

It’s 3pm on a Sunday and they’re cuddling, _cuddling_ , on the couch.

“Cecil?”

“Hmm?”

He wants to say ‘Was it really instantly?’ because he has to admit he’s curious, but if that sounds really narcissistic in his head, it’ll only sound worse out loud, so he keeps his trap shut. Also, he’s not sure what he wants to hear because any possible answers scare the living shit out of him. Of course, what he really _really_ wants to say is a lot more terrifying than that.

“I th—” he stops short because the words, so desperately clawing themselves out of him, stick in his throat as a pathetic, useless lump. Carlos turns his head to look Cecil in the eyes, and those two purple orbs of light are the most beautiful thing he’s ever, ever seen, and they make this sort of rushing come up in his chest. It’s like this wonderful ache every time he sees Cecil’s face, the center of everything.

 _I love you,_ Carlos does not say. _There have been other people, people who I thought might be it, but with you—I just_ know. _It’s like an instinct. I want you to know the extent of that, how it scares me and awes me every time I think about it._

He doesn’t, can’t, speak any of this. He opens his mouth again, tries to force the words out, squeezes his eyes shut, exhales hard through his nose but he just. Can’t. Do it.

Cecil stares back at him perceptively in that way he does sometimes, because he knows Carlos and knows when something’s up. “What is it?” he says.

Carlos swallows, mouth impossibly dry. “It—n-nothing,” he gives up.

“You sure?”

He closes his eyes briefly. “Yeah.”

\---

_Day 453_

_I need to tell him. I want him to know. But I can’t do it. Every time I open my mouth, the words just get stuck. I think he knows something’s wrong, but he doesn’t know what, and he hasn’t brought it up. Things feel…weird._

_And he keeps getting mad at me for canceling dates. Not that he doesn’t have every right to, but in fairness, he has a lot more free time than I do, considering I have to investigate practically every single thing in this entire town._

_Who am I kidding? I’m being a terrible boyfriend. I know that. I can’t believe he puts up with it. I feel awful._

_And I still can’t tell him._

\---

Neither of them can honestly remember what they were fighting about in the first place by this point. Something stupid and tiny that got blown way out of proportion until they arrived here: it’s three in the morning and they’re glaring red-faced at each other, standing on opposite sides of the room and still too close, in the midst of a floor-shaking shouting match which would be sure to wake the neighbors if they hadn’t done some kind of spell that encased their entire house in an impenetrable black fog.

Carlos paces back and forth agitatedly just to have an excuse not to look at Cecil. “I know, I know, I know, it was my fault! I forgot, I n-neglected you, okay? Now will you _please_ —” He stops pacing and turns to his boyfriend, half-pleading and half-shouting and trying not exceed the government-sanctioned limit for anger—“pleasejust _calm d—_ ”

Cecil points accusatorily at his distraught boyfriend. “Don’t tell me to calm down! I _told_ you I had a reservation at Gino’s, I had to get a special permit from city council months in advance, not to mention the flesh wounds since Gino turned into a giant winged crocodile last Thursday!”

“I already ap-pologized, I d-don’t know what you want me t-to do—”

Carlos’ hands are shaking now, and he’s trying to ignore the fact that his stutter is making a reprise appearance.

“I want you to keep your promises! Or at least _try_! And don’t act like this is my fault, you don’t get to be angry at _me_ after forgetting our dinner date for the _third time this month_!”

They’ve had fights before, of course they have, they’ve fought about this particular subject before, they’ve even had shouting matches at three AM before, but not like this. Things have been rocky for weeks but they’ve never gone this far, and now Carlos feels himself pushed over the edge of a cliff he didn’t know he was standing on, and words start flying out without his permission.

“ _I’m sorry_!” he yells tearfully. “I’m s- _so sorry_ , Cecil, I forget dates, I make mistakes, I fall short on promises! I know I k-keep screwing up and I’m t-terrible at this but I d-don’t know how to _d-do_ this! I’m not who you th-thought I was, I’m not the guy you t-talk about on the radio! I’m _s-sorry_ I’ve disappointed you with that and I’m _sorry_ I’m sorry I’m n-not _perfect_ , _perfect Carlos_ with his _perfect hair_ and— _god—d-dammit_ , Cecil!”

Cecil is now shouting through gritted teeth, quite a difficult feat when you really attempt it. Even across the room, Carlos can see he’s said too much. He sees it in the way Cecil’s eyes flash like a bomb’s gone off somewhere behind them. “Don’t you _dare_ act like I expected that of you! Don’t make this my fault! I made an _effort_ , I put other things second to make this work! I thought you were prepared to do the same, but I guess I’m just not as important as _science_ , am I?”

And that’s it. They’re both done. Wiped out and at a complete loss. Carlos feels the anger and heat drain out of the room while bitter resignation settles in to take its place. Cecil sniffles again, and holds out his hands in a sort of _I don’t know what to tell you_ gesture. The hurt in his eyes is so much that Carlos can’t look at them; his heart feels like it’s being squeezed in a cold, iron vice.

Carlos swallows painfully and runs a hand through his hair, looking up at Cecil with weary, watery eyes. The words are right there, ready to be spoken, and he knows they’re all it will take to cross this invisible line they’re standing toe-to-toe with.

Here’s his choice, really. Science, where he can bury himself and hide, solidity and knowledge that doesn’t terrify him like everything else does. Or Cecil.

Carlos is a coward.

He blinks and says the words, hating himself for it but urging them onward.

“A scientist is self-reliant,” he says quietly and emotionlessly. “That’s the first thing a scientist is.”

Cecil stares back at him for a second. _You’re really doing this? You’re going to leave it like that? This is what you want?_ He says all of this without speaking.

Carlos doesn’t answer.

Cecil senses finality in the air and breaks the silence. “Right. Okay then.” He wipes his face defiantly and sniffles again. “I think—I think maybe we should…be separate for a while. And—and figure things out. I’ll give you some space to be self-reliant.”

Carlos nods, vaguely certain he’s never felt so much guilt and self-loathing at once his entire life.

“I’ll—get my stuff.”

He doesn’t get all his stuff, just grabs whatever’s readily available because he can’t handle spending anther minute here, and practically bolts out the door, ignoring the way Cecil stares determinedly in the opposite direction. Neither of them says goodbye, and it’s such déjà vu, like every other failed disaster of a relationship that Carlos has attempted, and it’s all he can do to hold himself together as he drives away because he thought this one might actually work, thought it would be different because he cares more about Cecil than maybe he’s ever cared about anyone and _dear god it’s all his fault dear god_.

Carlos barely makes it back to the lab without crashing because his vision is so blurred. He sprints up the stairs, shoves his old key into the lock, throws down his stuff by the door and locks it behind him. Then he leans against it and slides down the wall slowly, crumpling on the floor in a pathetic, sobbing, hyperventilating heap.

\---

Sometimes after a particularly bad breakup Carlos sits in his bed all day listening to sad music and not eating. “For No One” is actually one of his favorite Beatles songs, despite it being depressing as fuck.

_The day breaks_   
_Your mind aches_   
_You find that all his words of kindness linger on when he no longer needs you_

_And in his eyes you see nothing_   
_No sign of love behind the tears_   
_Cried for no one_   
_A love that should have lasted years_

He cries for the whole day and plays the song on repeat. He even ignores the knocks on the window from various birds with city council-mandated cameras installed in their beaks. It’s hard to move, really, because the room is spinning and he’s lost Cecil he’s lost Cecil he can’t believe it except yes, of course he can, why wouldn’t he lose Cecil, Carlos has to ruin everything at some point so of course, why wouldn’t he ruin the best thing that’s ever happened to him?

His hands are shaking so violently he can barely see his own fingers. Of course he knows that sitting here feeling sorry for himself is about the most pathetic thing he could possibly be doing, since obviously he’s the most pathetic person alive, fucking coward, idiot, ruiner of anything decent—

He wishes Cecil’s radio show wasn’t mandatory listening for all Night Vale citizens. For the first time in almost a year and a half, he wishes desperately to hear anything, _anything_ , besides Cecil’s deep, velvety voice.

Cecil does the news broadcast sounding depressed and utterly lackluster. He doesn’t mention the fight or any of its aftereffects, thank god, but people seem to know something. When, after a week of moping around his house, Carlos has to leave to go to the supermarket because he’s out of food, people keep giving him dirty looks in the store, and the cashier won’t give him any change. He doesn’t forget or anything, and he’s not very discreet about it either. Carlos asks him, and he just straight-up says “no.”

Carlos doesn’t feel like arguing.

Then, Old Woman Josie tracks him down in the parking lot and says, “what happened with you and Cecil? How dare you hurt our radio host!”

Carlos doesn’t can’t say anything, partly because he’s a coward and Old Woman Josie is fucking scary when she’s mad, and partially because she’s started throwing small orange rocks at him, rocks which seems to have appeared out of thin air but hurt with all the bite of real rocks. He leaves skid marks driving away.

When he gets home, he cries some more and thinks hard about other things, recites the periodic table in his head, does anything to keep his mind away from Cecil because—

Cecil—

What is he going to do? What can he possibly even say now?

God, he’s ruined everything, hasn’t he?

This is so fucked up. It’s so completely fucked up that he and Cecil are _over_ now, they’re just _done_ , and Carlos can’t do anything about it because he’s a stupid, pathetic, lonely coward who can’t say the truth about the most important thing in the entire world, because he—

Loves Cecil. Loves him cautiously, uncontrollably, helplessly, tentatively, more than he should, more than he wants to.

\---

_Day 467_

_It’s really awful right now, and it’s not like I wish I didn’t love Cecil on the whole, but right now I wish I loved him less._

_That may be the most horrible, selfish thing I’ve ever thought. I am so fucked up, god._

_Look, honestly, I’m grateful for the way I feel about him. Sometimes I see him sitting across the table and I just think—you were the one stroke of good luck in my whole life. Not to be corny, but he actually is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I want to thank him for it. And I want to thank him for the depths of which I love him. It’s—it really is more than I thought I was capable of, and it’s remarkable, especially for me, cautious stupid pathetic me, and sometimes I’m just in awe of it. And it’s wonderful, and if I was a religious man I’d thank god for it every day. Except I’m not, I’m a scientist, so I thank the chaotic forces of the universe, the ones that make Night Vale so terrible and mystical and strange and fascinating. I send them my gratitude._

_But I also hate it, the way I feel, because it’s—this is horrible, selfish, I sometimes want to shoot myself for thinking this, but I hate it because it means I can’t leave Cecil. Ever. Not that I wanted to, I don’t, because I love him, but that’s just the thing. Now it’s—fuck, I’m the worst living person—I’m sort of trapped. It’s claustrophobic. When you care about someone this much, it’s like you’re in this incredible building, somewhere that makes you happy so you won’t want to go anywhere, except all the fire escapes are blocked, so you_ can’t _go even if you wanted to._

_And now, this fight, or—this break-up, I guess, because I guess we’re done now (fuck, oh, fuck) is basically me setting the building on fire. I can’t go anywhere because I love him and now—since I have to finish this shitty analogy— now I’m burning up._

_If that’s not the most fucked up, stupid, selfish metaphor for being in love that anyone’s ever thought up, then I don’t know what is._

_I wish I could fix this. I don’t know how, but I wish I could._

_I guess step one would probably be to get up off my ass and quit feeling sorry for myself._

\---

There’s an actual moment, after about his third bottle of government-issued pineapple bloodstone whiskey, when Carlos starts to miss Cecil so much it actually physically feels like his chest is seizing up.

He has to, _has to_ hear Cecil’s voice right now or he’s going to have a massive panic attack, he can feel it. He doesn’t want to be the one to call, the one to come crawling back like the pathetic child he is, but god in heaven he can’t lose Cecil, can’t do this, or he’s going to go insane. Struggling to breathe, he dials the phone with shaking fingers.

It picks up on the second ring and his breath catches.

“Hello?”

His heart hammers painfully against his ribcage.

 “C-Cecil? It’s me—p-please don’t hang up.”

There’s an audible sigh on the other end of the line.

“Carlos…” It hurts to hear him say it like that. He doesn’t even sound angry, just tired and resigned.

 _He’s given up on me,_ Carlos realizes.

 _Well, why wouldn’t he?_ Says a voice in the back of his head. _You gave up on yourself a decade and a half ago._

“I—I—” he attempts a sentence and fails miserably, then takes several very deep breaths. Cecil waits patiently. “Cecil, I kn-know that I—I screwed up. It’s—th-this is my fault, and I’m…” It’s such a meager explanation that he cringes, swallowing painfully. “I g-guess what I’m s-saying is that I’m s-sorry.”

Cecil stays silent, and Carlos exhales shakily, burying his face in his hands even though he’s no one can see him (aside from several members of the Sheriff’s Secret Police). “I—l-look, I just w-want to know if…there’s any chance I c-could make this up to y-you.”

A pause.

“Carlos, I don’t know. I—” his voice breaks for a moment, and Carlos knows suddenly that Cecil is missing him just as much. “I believe you, I do, but I don’t know if I can…trust you. Does that make sense?”

His heart plummets. “I—y-yeah. It does. I don’t know if—I want to promise but—”

“Since the whole point of this was you not keeping your promises, let’s avoid that.”

Well, that’s a slap in the face.

Carlos tries to swallow despite the golf ball-sized lump in his throat. “Right. Y-yes.”

Then, because he thinks he might cry, Carlos gets quiet and mumbles, “I m-miss you, Cecil.”

He hears a slight intake of breath that might just be Cecil holding back a sob, and then a deep sigh.

“Bye, Carlos.”

The line goes dead.

Carlos buries his face in his hands again, trying not to hyperventilate.

_What am I going to do?_

 He can’t lose Cecil, he can’t. He doesn’t know how to manage without him.

Honestly, he hasn’t really known how to manage his life at all since mom died. He’d entered into this job while on the brink of suicide, and honestly, he may never have really backed away from that ledge, just kept himself distracted from it.

Then he came to Night Vale and met Cecil, and suddenly getting up in the morning wasn’t quite so hard anymore. Suddenly, he had a reason to. And now Cecil’s gone.

_He can’t be gone he can’t be if he’s gone then I don’t know why I’d even bother I can’t lose him please I can’t—_

He has to do something.

\---

It’s really, really stupid, but it’s all he can think of.

He never thought he’d see the day where he would be employing such clichéd methods to get someone back. This is worse than _Say Anything_.

He’s outside Cecil’s place at—well, sometime at night, he’s not sure since none of the clocks are real, but the sky is dark and the moon is out—with his guitar (barometer) in one hand and a clenched, sweaty fist on the other.

Carlos draws in a shaky breath, prays that the minimum amount of secret policemen will be watching this, and knocks on the door.

It takes several moments for Cecil to open it, during which his brain screams _run!_ repeatedly. But he’s not sure he could, even if he planned to, since he’s apparently glued to the spot.

Then the locks unlatch and Cecil pulls it open, peering out at Carlos in a worn t-shirt and sweatpants that are a truly hideous shade of orange. His eyes light with surprise and Carlos’ breath catches, and for a minute they just stand there, speechless, staring at each other.

“Carlos, what are you doing…here…”

Carlos swallows, trying very hard to remember how to breathe.

“C-Cecil, I—”

He closes his eyes briefly. _Come on. I have to do something or I’ll never have even tried. I can’t lose him._

With a gargantuan effort, the corners of Carlos’ mouth twitches upwards into a somewhat petrified smile, and he strikes the first chord on his guitar. Cecil doesn’t say anything, which doesn’t quite seem like a good sign, but not a bad one either, so Carlos takes a deep breath and starts to sing for Cecil.

_There are places I remember_   
_All my life, though some have changed_   
_Some forever not for better_   
_Some are gone, and some remain_   
_All these places have their moments_   
_Of lovers and friends I still can recall_   
_Some are dead and some are living_   
_In my life, I’ve loved them all_

_But of all these friends and lovers_   
_There is no one compares with you_   
_And these memories lose their meaning_   
_When I think of love as something new_   
_Though I know I’ll never lose affection_   
_For people and things that went before_   
_I know I’ll often stop and think about them_   
_In my life, I love you more_

_In my life, I love you more_

Amazingly, he doesn’t stutter once.

Cecil stays still, quiet and watchful through the whole song, and once it’s finished, he just stares at Carlos like he’s a work of art. Then his lip trembles slightly. He says nothing, and Carlos takes that as a cue.

“Look, Cecil, I j-just,” he starts, trembling in complete terror, “I came here b-because I miss you, and…I kn-know all of this was my f-fault, and if you don’t w-want me back, then—” _then I wouldn’t know how to breathe without you_ , Carlos does not say, “then I w-wouldn’t blame you. B-but I… had to t-try, I guess, because I never t-told you that I l-love you.”

Cecil’s eyes start to get shiny, but Carlos can’t stop now, if he stops now then he’ll run away and not come back.

“I should’ve s-said that, Cecil, because it’s true, every l-line of the song was t-true, and it’s like—” he stares up at the stars, vowing not to tear up but not doing very well, “when I look at you, it’s l-like I can see everything all of a s-sudden, I can see the whole w-world like it’s something n-new, and you’re sp-spinning at the center of it. You’re—you’re—r-remarkable, Cecil, and I couldn’t s-say it before, but I am now, and—” That’s it. He’s almost out of ways to humiliate himself by pouring his damn heart out. “I’m sorry. And I—if y-you’ll…if I could have another chance, then I—” He bites his lip hard to stop the tears, which are dangerously close to brimming over, “I know my p-promises haven’t meant much in the past, b-but this time, Cecil, I s-swear, I—I j-just—” _I love you Cecil so much you’ll never know_ “I c-can’t lose you,” he finishes quietly.

Cecil stares at him unblinkingly as tears spill over both of their cheeks and says softly, “okay, Carlos.” And then pulls him into a tight embrace. 

They don’t let go for a long, long time.

 

_fin_


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry guys, I had to. It was like two in the morning when I wrote this.

**Epilogue**

 

Day 1095—three years in Night Vale—is a Sunday.

That night, Carlos and Cecil are doing that thing they do where they sit next to each other on the couch holding hands, each reading a different municipally-approved book, not even speaking. Somehow they feel close even though they’re both completely transported by the words on the page.

Honestly, Carlos always feels close to Cecil now. He’s pretty sure that’s permanent. And for once, that’s all right with him. Even though there’s always going to be that nagging sense in the back of his head, _this isn’t supposed to happen,_ he’s mostly okay with things now.

He’s absorbed in _A Brief History of  Condominiums,_ which is actually thicker than most of his encyclopedias, though a substantial number of the pages appear to be blank, when he notices that Cecil hasn’t turned a page in a while. Did he doze off? Carlos glances over.

Nope. Still awake and staring avidly at the page with maybe a little too much concentration.

_Maybe he accidentally thought about the dog park and slipped into one of those city council-mandated vacant stupors._

Nope. No telltale pulsing red light behind his eyes. Apparently Cecil’s just spaced out. Carlos lets him be.

That’s when he notices that Cecil is tapping his fingers on his leg. That’s what he does when he’s nervous.

Maybe it’s a suspenseful book. Against his better instincts and mostly because he’s basically just fed up with being scared of things, Carlos ignores it and loses himself in _A Brief History of Condominiums_ once again. Later, he’ll realize that Cecil actually waited until he was finished with the chapter, which was very thoughtful of him.

A few minutes afterwards, Carlos finishes the chapter, and Cecil breaks the silence.

“Carlos.”

Even after being around him almost constantly for nearly 24 months, the way Cecil says his name still makes Carlos’ heart flutter and jump to his throat.

“Yeah?”

“We should go out.”

“Uh, okay. When and where?”

“Now. And it’s a surprise.”

Carlos gulps, slightly nervous, and says, “okay.”

Cecil makes him close his eyes through the entire drive, and when they get there, he takes Carlos’ hand and leads him outside slowly. Carlos can feel him pulsing with excitement.

“Okay, open!”

They’re in the parking lot, looking up at the (still there) lights in the sky above the Arby’s. Carlos turns to look at Cecil, who responds with one of the biggest grins he’s ever seen.

“Cecil…what are we doing here?”

“Right, yes, that. Okay. I, uh…” Cecil looks flustered. Cecil does not get flustered, just giddy like a little kid. But never nervous. Something is off.

“Cecil? What is it?”

Cecil takes Carlos’ hand in both of his. “Okay, so…I had a big dramatic speech planned, but screw it, my hands are getting all sweaty.” He looks Carlos steadily, surely in the eye and gets down on one knee, and Carlos’ heart flat-out stops as he says unwaveringly, “Carlos, I love you. Marry me.”

He pops out the ring. It’s a bloodstone on a rusty metal circlet, but a ring nonetheless.

“Oh,” says Carlos quietly, like that night in this same parking lot so long ago. He can’t breathe. He just stands there, eyes widened to the size of tennis balls, staring down into Cecil’s calm purple ones. Several voices in the back of his head that go by the names of Rational Fear, Self-Loathing and Deep-Seated Emotional Fear start shouting at him.

_You can’t marry someone from of in Night Vale,_ says Rational Fear, _who knows what kind of fucked-up rituals they have. It might include some sort of joint suicide or something, you have no clue. You’re a scientist, be cautious, for god’s sake!_

_You don’t deserve him. He’s too good for you,_ says, you guessed it, self-loathing. _Sooner or later he’ll realize that and then it’ll just make for more paperwork when he so very justifiably leaves you._

_No no commitment=bad, you fuck things up, you’re screwed, if you let him in this way then he can really destroy you, you idiot,_ says the Deep-Seated Emotional Fear, which is really the equivalent of a very perceptive and hurtful six-year-old.

But despite the cacophony of caveats echoing through his skull, every beat of Carlos’ heart screams _yes, yes, yes._

Cecil waits patiently for him to respond, then adds as an afterthought, “I want to be with you for as long as the chaotic, sinister forces of our insignificant existence will allow, and as close to forever as the meager concept of eternity can get before swallowing both of us whole.”

With a good deal of effort, Carlos inhales, staring back into the hopeful, shining face of the man who fell in love instantly with his tentative, anxious grin and then announced on the radio, the man who called him perfect, and says softly, “okay, Cecil.”

Cecil squeals like an excited girl and throws his arms around Carlos, who immediately (embarrassingly) tears up, and then slips the ring onto Carlos’ finger eagerly. He whispers a repeat into Carlos’ ear—“I love you so much.”

And for once in his life, Carlos says the truth without any hesitation, “I love you too.”

The lights in the sky above, mostly void, partially stars, glisten like they know this is as close to forever as it gets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everybody! Also if anyone has any prompts, just leave a comment and I'd love to oblige  
> *sets timer*  
> I'm waiting...

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I did feel it was necessary to include the entire song.


End file.
